56

As his eyes flickered open, he was assailed by the same sounds and smells as before . . . dripping water, piss and shit. A face stared down at him. Or was it just his own reflection?

Am I dead, he wondered? If he was, then he definitely hadn’t gone to heaven.

‘You’re in bad shape, mate,’ a voice said. ‘You need a doctor.’

McNab realized with sudden clarity that it was his street companion from the previous evening talking.

‘The Simon folk’ll be round here soon. They’ll sort you out. Can you sit up?’

McNab tried. He’d been dreaming about his mobile, wishing he had it, but more than that, something he should remember about it. Your brain’s fucked, he told himself.

As his good Samaritan helped him sit against the wall, McNab noticed that he’d gained a blanket round his shoulders. He tried to say thank you, but his mouth just flapped open and shut like a stranded fish.

At that moment two dark-clothed men appeared at the entrance to the alley and looked in, checking for – what? Him?

‘Who’s there?’ a voice called.

McNab cowered back against the wall. ‘Don’t answer,’ he hissed.

‘It’s okay. They’re the Simon guys I told you about.’ His companion stood up and called out. ‘You need to help this guy.’

After that, things passed by in a blur. The voices that seemed to surround him murmured their concerns. Questions were asked of his erstwhile mate. He heard him say, ‘he sounds Scottish’ and ‘he’s beaten pretty bad’.

Another blanket was laid over him. Then he found himself rising in the air and realized he’d been loaded onto a stretcher. The alley passed him by and he emerged onto the street, and from there into the back of an ambulance.

All of which he could do nothing about, although his mind screamed at him that it wasn’t a good idea.

The alley had smelt bad, but in here the stink seemed even worse.

‘Jesus,’ he heard himself say, ‘what’s that fucking smell?’

A male voice laughed. ‘That’s you, mate. All you.’

McNab, shocked, attempted to apologize.

‘Forget it,’ the voice said. ‘I’m more concerned about your injuries.’ He turned to whoever else was in the back with them. McNab’s swollen eyes denied him the ability to view the other paramedic, but he heard her voice, a soft series of notes, which became a song in his head.

His jacket lay open, he knew that, and someone was mouthing concern at the exposed battered version of himself. He said he was sorry, again. Why, he had no idea.

His eyelids were eased open and a light shone in.

‘You taken anything, mate?’

‘Not by choice,’ he tried to tell them, although that wasn’t strictly true, if you counted the cocaine.